Their boughs, bereft of leaves, are bare.
Songbirds have flown, and so they stare.
Their branches bend in bitter breezes,
as moss upon their faces freezes.
But winter’s cruel and frosty touch,
to trees, does not amount to much.
For they have bark that’s gnarled and knotted.
Their skin is thick, like blood that’s clotted.
So, when the swallows take to wing
and children no more laugh and sing.
Trees dream, to summon season summer,
with bumble bee, that happy hummer.
Then winter, while the willow weeps,
is spring once more, and summer sleeps,
about to flex its fiery fingers
to melt this meanest month that lingers.
In dreams, ‘neath budding boughs all shaded
young lovers lie when light has faded.
Then leaves once more grow green with gladness,
and trees forget their winter sadness.